


The Meaning of Signs

by wildestranger



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hogwarts, there is war and sex and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meaning of Signs

_I don't love you_, Remus thinks as Sirius pounds into him. The torrent of filthy endearments that come out of his mouth are not a sign of affection, they're just words, as meaningless as any other words. Remus likes the feeling of having such words pushed out of him by Sirius' cock, undiscovered noises and thoughts he's never had before. With other men he's been quiet, with an occasional moan or an appropriately placed _Oh God_. With Sirius, there are new things. But it isn't love.

There are slow, savouring licks, the feathering of a tongue on the inside of his arm, or Sirius' lower lip rubbing against his. There are signs of passion, hungry hands pushing down clothes, possessive arms pushing him against doors, walls, kitchen tables. There is tenderness in every movement of Sirius' body.

There was a time when a kiss meant _I love you_, or an embrace meant_ I want to be close to you_. Remus is sure he can remember such a time, with other boys, other men, who were careful how they touched him lest they say too much. Remus knows that he remembers such a time, but he doesn't remember what it felt like. Sirius touches him because he can. There is a sensuous quality to Sirius that makes him linger on fingers passing a wine glass, or stroke down bodies that he bumps into.

Yet kisses are not a sign of love.

: :

During their school years, Remus had made a point of not discussing his sexuality. James and Sirius had made a few lame jokes about poor, shy, Moony, but it was generally accepted as something not talked about, blamed on his lycanthropy and skinny, scarred body. There had been a few girls, and then a few boys, both kept secret for various reasons. After school Remus got his own flat, and developed routines away from the Marauders, his own pubs, his own bars and clubs. There had been privacy, and secrecy, and independence, and Remus had loved it.

Sometimes the men he fucked had long black hair and grey eyes. They were often gorgeous and knew it. Sometimes they looked quiet and colourless, and Remus had enjoyed drawing them out, enjoyed knowing what power there was in keeping control, and in losing it.

Sirius had followed him one night. Watched him in the pub with his mates, followed him into the club afterwards. He had finished a bottle of red wine before Remus had noticed him, long fingers caressing the cheap glass, legs spread in an elegant sprawl over the fake velvet sofa, his mouth a thin red line.

They had stared at each other for a while before Sirius lifted his bottle in invitation. Remus' steps were the careful progress of a man who knows he's about to be kicked in the face. Sirius poured him a glass that he didn't want, but he drank it anyway.

Sirius hadn't said _What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this_. He hadn't threatened to tell the others, hadn't accused him of keeping secrets. He had simply taken Remus' hand, forced it open, and drawn a circle on his palm. He had stroked the skin between his fingers, pulled his hand wide open, traced the veins on his wrist. Then he'd taken Remus home and fucked him.

Sirius is generous with his touches, a nip on the earlobe when they're alone, an arm over his shoulder when in public. But Remus knows they don't mean whatever everyone else thinks they mean, friendship, brotherhood, affection. Sirius has more power than anyone Remus has known, so much that he can afford to show it, be playful with it, give it away. Generosity is a superior gift, it enforces gratitude and dependence. Remus gives some things in return, but although his moans aren't fake, they seem to come from Sirius rather than from Remus himself. He is merely the receptacle.

Sirius doesn't allow him to escape the touching. He has learned to expect them at all times, but he has not yet grown desensitised to them. Every brush of hands, every accidental touch from strangers on the street makes him think of Sirius. He cannot hide in his flat, for Sirius has had him connected to the Floo Network and comes by at all hours. He comes in the morning before going to training, smelling of coffee and soap, and presses Remus against the counter and licks him all over. He comes in the middle of the night, reeking of wine and cunt and semen and fucks Remus all over his bed. When Remus sleeps he keeps waking up to listen for sounds of powder being ground to the floor, or to wait for Sirius' mouth on his neck. He is at all time violently awake and in a trance, waiting to be touched, dreading the first contact with his skin, longing for the feel of those hands and lips.

: :

It is Lily who jars him out of it. She notices the bite mark on his left wrist, and how he shivers every time his watch pushes against it. They are friends in a different way than the Marauders, comfortable conversations about books and tea, things said through literary commentary and the placing of green-and-yellow tea mugs.

"I saw Sirius the other day," she says, her eyes steeped in a cup of Lapsang Souchong.

"Oh?" Remus lifts the cup to his mouth, focuses on holding it still.

"He was saying how he'd crashed at your place on Saturday. Been to a club, pulled some girl, went to your flat to sober up."

Remus remembers the look on Lily's face when she'd visited him on Sunday afternoon, disapproval mixed with concern over the marks on his body, the squalid state of the living room, and the smell of sex and alcohol. Now there is wariness, and a little despair, as she puts down her teacup, gathers her hands in her lap, and looks at him.

He doesn't say _It's complicated_ or _Yes I know it's a bad idea_. He doesn't tell her about drugging kisses and slow hands and what Sirius makes him do. They both know Sirius.

"Is this what you want?" she asks.

"No," he says, without hesitation, without thinking about what he wants. He craves for the private space he used to have, his room where he couldn't be disturbed, his flat where he could choose whether to move or be still. His body. His life. He wants it back.

Lily smiles at him, and he smiles back, ridiculously grateful for a moment.

: :

He considers locking his door, disconnecting the Floo Network, but Sirius can Apparate and anyway such flimsy obstacles wouldn't keep him away. He prepares things to say, but they all sound meaningless and ineffective. _Don't come here again. Don't come near me. Don't touch me_. A public space is essential, and Remus can bear embarrassment better than he can bear Sirius touching him.

A Sunday night at the pub with James and Lily and Peter. James and Lily are playing pool, Peter has gone over to watch. Sirius is drawing circles in Remus' palm when Remus pulls his hand away and says _Don't do that_. He is surprised to hear the petulant resentment in his voice.

Sirius looks incredulous for a moment, then stubborn, then cold. Remus realises he won't have to say any of the things he has practised. Sirius stands up, goes off to whisper something in James's ear, and walks out of the door.

: :

The next time Remus goes to the club he pulls a pale young man, who stands in a corner and watches the others move. Remus walks up to him, buys him a drink, and makes outrageous suggestions. Then he takes him into a back room and fucks him against the wall. The other man is sobbing and begging and pleading in a torrent of unused words as Remus pounds into him.

On the way he walks past another room, where the candles are burning low and the air smells of hash. A white body suspended between two other men, dark hands bruising his nipples, a flash of white-blond hair by his thighs. Black hair slick with sweat on his collarbone, brushed aside by someone's mouth. The purple head of his jutting cock dark against the pale body. Hands tied above his head, the metal of the handcuffs glistening in the candlelight. He isn't struggling, but shivering against the restrains, and his mouth opens in a moan, soundless in the thundering noise of the club, as one man swallows his cock and the other pushes into him from behind. Remus waits for Sirius to look up and see him, but he doesn't.

: :

Remus stops going to the club. He spends more time with his school friends, goes to Quidditch matches, engagement parties, the pub on Sunday. He starts to dislike being alone in his flat.

Remus gets used to not being touched by Sirius. Sometimes he still waits, but it never comes, and his heartbeat goes down. Instead he watches Sirius, dazzling smiles and irrepressible hand movements, a face purple with rage and flying cutlery. Sirius looks at him, occasionally, with a half-smile that isn't unkind, precisely, but something devious, knowing, conspiratorial. But Sirius never talks about what they used to do, and sometimes it seems impossible that they ever did.

: :

Sirius doesn't leave him alone. He stands too close but never allows any part of his body to touch Remus. He argues, violently and eloquently, over things he doesn't care about, leaving the others stunned and disturbed. He's taken to smashing glasses and kicking doorframes (Lily's warning that he'll break his toes resulted in metallic boots). He expresses his frustration by shouting at acquaintances, all his celebrated wit reduced to swearwords and abuse. The death of the Prewetts, of the McKinnons, of so many others, does not make him thoughtful, but explosive.

One night at James and Lily's Remus makes the mistake of grabbing Sirius' wrist. He is about to throw a glass at the wall, and Remus knows it is one of Lily's favourites, expensive and precious. Sirius goes utterly still and his eyes become huge. Remus' hand isn't gentle but Sirius melts, falls apart with the barest groan. His hair falls forward to cover his face.

The next day at the pub Sirius is subdued, drinks his pint and smokes one fag after another in his little corner. He doesn't listen to what the others are saying, and when they leave he looks at Remus with desperate eyes.

: :

To say Sirius is loyal is a misrepresentation. Sirius is loyal to James, they are brothers and friends and equals in the Quidditch-field, in the thick of the battle, in competing over who can down most pints in ten minutes. Those who are less equal are treated accordingly. While Sirius would never admit to concurring with his family's prejudices, there are still traces of it in the system of value he has created for himself. What he can do, to whom, with what consequences: what he can get away with. Sirius usually can.

: :

Remus considers giving in to temptation. A touch of a fingertip would do it, and there would be licking and stroking and smearing and sucking. And he would have power, controlling Sirius with the positioning of his body and the denial of his hands. Yet equality is such a beautiful word. Not as meaningless, somehow, as the others.

Yet Sirius is becoming more desperate, more violent with his smiles and more vulnerable with his rages. Lily has taken to avoiding him, Peter is just blatantly scared, and James looks at Remus as if it is his job to sort him out. Perhaps it is. But Remus is suspicious of Sirius' reasons for wanting him, as a warm body, as an old friend, as something he doesn't want to put into words.

But his room is silent, and endless amounts of books and tea cannot cover the dinginess and the cold air seeping through his windows. He watches Lily and James holding on to each other and finding warmth despite the war. He looks at Sirius, and sees what used to be blinding and burning in its brilliance, but is now becoming hollow.

: :

Sirius has been quiet all afternoon, the restlessness at the headquarters of the Order has not affected him. When Remus sits down next to him, his smile is almost real.

"What do you think about the news then? Good time for a wedding?"

Sirius scoffs, but his eyes are less dead.

"Can't believe it. It's because of the baby, I suppose, but still, we're in the middle of a war, and we're losing. They shouldn't be thinking about preparing a wedding."

"I think it's going to be just a Registry Office thing, with some drinks at their place afterwards."

"What's the point then? If you're not going to make a big deal about it?"

"You know the point, Padfoot."

Sirius looks down, and Remus notices his hands are shaking a little.

The moment of decision is brief, but when Remus takes hold of Sirius' hand, he sees the shaking stops. Sirius also stops breathing.

"You can have a chance."

Sirius' skin is warm, and Remus feels the headiness returning as his thumb strokes down Sirius' wrist. It is not going to be something he will trust, not easy or unthinkingly dependable. Yet what he will not put into words is still there. It can be meaningless, or something that holds them together. A flickering of a tongue, the sure touch of a hand. A sudden intake of breath, a torrent of nonsense whispered into his shoulder. The emptiest of words, produced by the most worthless of gestures.


End file.
